


Spare the Rod

by shadow13



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fingering, Pseudo-Incest, Spanking, it's pretty fucked up, total smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 04:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4990423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow13/pseuds/shadow13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Alayne can't manage to behave as her father wants her to, then there will have to be a punishment for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spare the Rod

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alayne_StoneColdFox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alayne_StoneColdFox/gifts).



> I wasn't going to post this, but since SOME people can't respect tags, gotta clean it up somehow, grumble grumble. A birthday gift for Sassclops.

Alayne had stood by the fire for at least a quarter of an hour now, waiting for her father to even notice her presence. The summons had been so urgent, and to be left standing here, not even offered a seat as she usually was, while his pen flew across pages on his desk. Normally, the Lord Protector might seat her on his lap, let his baseborn daughter’s hands wander along the correspondences, the records, the accounts, and his hands would wander their own paths. Certainly he would at least greet her, bid her sit, to wait for evening lessons, to take up her reading, or anything at all. To be  _ignored_ , though, was quite out of the girl’s purview.

_He is angry with me_. Sansa’s stomach felt cold and hard as the stones of the Eyrie. Lord Petyr was angry, and in this current state of uncertainty, the girl tortured herself with this knowledge.

After a time, the quill was set aside and Lord Baelish looked at the girl as she stood at a corner of the desk, pressed close to the fireplace and its warm glow.  _His eyes are so grey_. “Well, Alayne. Why do you think I have called you here.”

All child-like instincts were called upon, though it should have felt perverse to do so. After so long in this charade, it was disturbingly natural. Sansa was too happy to be alive and free to bother worrying on it. “I don’t know, Father.”

“Oh, you don’t?” That answer didn’t please him. “You need to practice better lies, sweetling.” If he was angrier now, it was not for lying - it was for doing it so poorly. Sansa tried to stop the trembling of her lower lip. “So then it would surprise you to hear of the breathless account from a chambermaid I had after the evening meal of a conversation overheard between yourself and young Harry?”

The cold knot in her stomach drew tighter. “I-I spoke with him, my lord, I did not do anything to shame you.”

“I think, my sweet Alayne, that you and I have different feelings in this regard.” He rose from his chair in a steady, even motion, ringed hands flat against the desktop, and the dread in the girl increased. “Will you make me repeat what was told to me?” At her silence, he hummed, “Very well. The servant girl was able to repeat, word for word, what the Young Falcon said about taking you to our dear Lord Royce’s stables.”

Sansa went pale as a sheet. “Father, I-”

“About how eager he was to show you how he practiced for tourney with his stallion, and perhaps you might  _ride_ with him, and after - when you’re suitably flushed and breathless - how very natural it would be to rest in the softness of the hay and how he might show you his _other_ practices that have so delighted the  _other_ young girls of his acquaintance-”

“Father, please!”

“And what might you show him, his sweet intended? How might you lift your skirts for your daring Young Falcon? Should his fingers roam between your legs, or might you allow his mouth? Or perhaps still his cock-”

It was almost sickening. “I wouldn’t!”

The Lord Protector crooked his finger, and helplessly his child stepped forward, limbs trembling, blue eyes damp with the threat of tears. He held her chin between his thin fingers, and he whispered in a way that made Alayne shiver, “That isn’t what you told him, is it, my sweet?”

“I-I said…” Her lips quivered even as she spoke; how pathetic it was, to be able to face the sheer cliffs of the Vale, to gaze upon the heights that had killed the late Lady Arryn and keep her head - but tremble with fear when it was Petyr, when it was he who spoke in that cold, heartless way of his.

And it was not because she feared he would hurt her, and that was somehow worse.

Alayne gathered her mettle and swallowed, saying, “I said that I could wish for nothing more - _after_ we were wed.”

Petyr’s eyes, though, were as humorless as ever, his thin mouth a flat, unwavering line. “Was that before or after his hands went to your backside, my dear?”

Alayne trembled in earnest now. “I didn’t wish to upset him, should I not make him love me as you wished?”

“So that he can make you the next Saffron? Oh yes, those were my  _exact_ instructions, weren’t they?”

“I was surprised, that was all.”

“We do not become flustered by surprises, Alayne. We  _plan_ for them.”

“Father, I am sorry, I will be better at our next meeting.”

Petyr was staring at her, almost the way he did when he was deep in his cups, or when he spoke of her mother - or the castle in the snow…His looks were so far away, Sansa almost dared to relax a little. She was even startled when he suddenly released her chin.

But Littlefinger was there, so cool, so even, the terrible, smirking lord, and he twisted the smallest of his rings around his last finger. “So you shall, my sweet. But to ensure it, a lesson is in order. A punishment and an education.” The girl blanched again. “Bend over the desk, Alayne.”

She did not move, however, fingers fretting with the girdle at her waist. “I-I will be much better next time, Father, I will be good, I swear it, I promise.”

“I know you will. Now, bend over the desk.”

Feet that did not feel like her own moved Sansa forward. A waist that wasn’t hers was bending. Petyr had moved his papers so that Sansa’s cheek pressed against the cool, smooth surface of the weirwood. The desk smelled of ink and the dry scent of parchment, and wine - and Petyr. Her eyes closed for a moment; that was the heady fragrance, the odor of the anise the preserved his fine clothes and the mint that he chewed. Sansa’s fingers clutched tightly at the opposite end, and she could feel sweat beading at the back of her neck as she listened to the even, measured stride of the lord as he drew nearer.

Petyr’s hand was light, warm, even soft as it rested at the small of her back. “Now, why do fathers punish their daughters, Alayne?”

She swallowed. “Because they want them to be better.”

“That’s right. Is it to hurt them?”

“No, my lord.” That was an important lesson. The first time this strange ritual had taken place, Alayne had drank too deeply of the wine Lord Nestor freely served his guests, she had flirted too freely with a handsome, eager young knight ready for death or glory (and preferably the latter); had even allowed him to press his greasy lips against her cheek in a moment of light-headedness. The Lord Baelish had put her over his lap after the fact, alone in his study with tea to sober the girl as she found the wine fading, replaced with a monstrous headache. It wasn’t even that the blows had hurt, they were a sting at most - but Sansa could only remember Joffrey, Ser Meryn, the tear of silk, the horrible dull thud of fists against her skin, the awful, awful silence of everyone at court- Three strikes and she sobbed fit to fall apart. And how long had Petyr held her? Was it an hour? Was it longer? Let her tears stain his shoulder as his hand gently stroked her back to soothe her and assured - no, a father must never strike his daughter in anger, never, of course not. But would this be a lesson Alayne would ever forget? She had shaken her head no. There was the logic of it, then. No father  _enjoys_ punishing his beloved daughter; but it is a responsibility that must be fulfilled for their betterment. How many young girls had been ruined by over-indulgent fathers? Alone in bed, the sting of his palm now just a tingling warmth over her rump, Sansa felt the sense of it, and she wasn’t sure if it was because Petyr spoke the truth or made everything seem so natural when he said it…

As with everything that Petyr introduced her to, it was all a strange new world to Sansa. At Winterfell, the grandest Stark daughter had never had a smack from parents or septa in her life. But Alayne was bastard bred, however lady-like her demeanor. She was not too good for this.

In another moment, Sansa could feel the cool air of the room against the backs of her legs as Petyr lifted her skirt. The warmth of the fire did little to stop the spread of goosebumps over her flesh. She could feel the prickle even through her white stockings that stopped mid-way up the thigh. The only other protection was her small clothes, and precious little they did.

A girl less observant than she might not have heard the very slight way the Lord Protector now labored for breath with his daughter exposed for him. The hand that held up her skirts rested along the small of her back, gently keeping her in place. Sansa counted her heartbeats in the silence. Before she could be fully prepared - which was always Petyr’s way - his palm collided with her flesh in a short, sharp  _smack_! The girl hissed. The man’s hand smoothed the injured area, though, as if in someway already remorseful. The skin that hadn’t prickled from gooseflesh now raised from the contact. Another strike, this time to the other side - another, more quickly, a little more force. Sansa jolted slightly forward on the desk, caught between a hiss and a whimper, but refusing to cry out. The blows came more rapidly now, four, five, six - never hard enough to truly hurt, but enough that she expected the imprint of his fingers to linger on her ass like some absurd reminder of the experience - and of course, that was what it was, wasn’t it?

As with the first time, with most every time in between, tears sprung to the lady’s eyes again - and just as then, it was not  _just_ because she was remembering Joffrey and the pain and humiliation. Sansa bit her lip and fended off tears because when the man who played as her father let his hand linger after another blow, his fingers moved so terribly gently between her legs and made her jolt and shiver. She cried because it was so obvious how  _wet_ she was from this, and Sansa didn’t know who she was anymore - not a Stark, not a Stone, nothing but what Petyr stripped away and re-built her as. And what was worse, how she  _enjoyed_ it, moaned not just when his fingers rubbed a little more insistently at her swollen mound but also when they drew back to land again over her backside. Her legs were shaking, her hips angled to grant Baelish the best advantage of her. 

She was nothing but what Petyr made of her, and what was worst of all was that she found such pleasure in it, that she had never been as strong as she was when being  _spanked_ across a weirwood desk. Any wonder, then, that she cried? At ten, Petyr stopped, his breathing heavy. If she had been angled upwards, Sansa would have been able to see the sweat that beaded along his brow. Should a bystander somehow happen upon this scene, they might think the matter a little odd, but more likely that the Lord Protector was punishing his daughter for being too free with her intended. But nothing could be further from the truth.

Baelish leaned forward, and Sansa shivered when his breath brushed her ear and made strands of her hair flutter. “We don’t let Harry think he has won you yet.”

Sansa could hardly speak for how she bit her lip. “No, my lord.”

“He won’t be able to tell you about what he wants you to do with his cock because he will be too terrified you’ll reject him. He acts boldly because he’s presumed he’s won already.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Love only lasts when we think our beloved loves us less than we love them.” Still he didn’t drop her skirts, and indeed, his fingers were sliding beneath her smallclothes and pulling them down even as he spoke… “I want our brave Young Falcon to live in  _fear_ over you, to be in agony over the beautiful Alayne and her favor -  _that_ is when you have power, my sweet.” There was that helpless whimper from her again - but in that moment, Petyr turned her, pulled her up so that the backs of her knees rested against the edge of the desk - and the whimpers were quickly gasps to feel his fingers sink into her. If Sansa looked, she’d see his eyes were black, but she almost could not look at all. “That’s what you want, isnt it, sweetling?”

“Oh, yes-” she was breathless, senseless. Her head tilted forward onto his shoulder, her lips brushing his jaw, his cheek, his neck, his ear, and still helpless as his fine, long fingers pumped and curled within her. “Y-yes, my lord-! Petyr-!”

Her noises were wisely swallowed by him, the twist and slide of his tongue twining with her own. The pace of his hand was more brutal than the punishment had been, and Sansa’s legs quivered to be held this far apart, for the wonderful heat that built between them, rose in her stomach, seemed to glide up her spine and- and-!

Sansa was almost noiseless anyway, but was just as grateful for the passion with which Petyr continued to kiss her - as if to keep her like this, forever, her arousal dripping over his fingers, onto the desk, a sheen against her white thighs…Her fingers dug tightly into his back, and his free hand was almost as possessive at her hip, spasming slightly himself. She could feel him through his wool breeches, the press of him at her leg. After all this, Sansa always felt a queer longing to pull at the laces, to free him and weigh him in her hand and know if it felt as good as it seemed it would, to touch, to guide between her legs, to watch inch by inch disappear within her-

Petyr spoke first, he usually did, his grey temples damp from sweat. “Harry likes to think he has this pretty cunt of yours, sweet Sansa…” Another curl of his hand to make her shudder before he oh, so, slowly pulled out of her. It was always better when he used her name, somehow, it always was. “But who really has it?”

Sansa could almost laugh with joy. “You, of course, my lord.”


End file.
